


Subjectivity

by macavitykitsune



Category: Wild Adapter
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2064393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macavitykitsune/pseuds/macavitykitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reality defines unreality. Tokito defines Kubota.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subjectivity

The thing about Tokito, Kubota thinks, is that he gets possessive over the weirdest things.

  
Food, for instance. Kubota isn’t allowed to snatch food off Tokito’s plate, even if it’s something he dislikes eating, anyway. Tokito, of course, believes that anything on Kubota’s plate is fair game if he likes it.

  
Soap is another thing, strangely enough. Kubota has only tried it once (when his own ran out) but on the next day there were three new bars of his brand on ‘his’ side of the bath and Tokito was clutching at his own and glaring at him like an offended cat. Kubota can take a hint, so he’s never done it again. Tokito still eyes his soap suspiciously, though, and he always has spares of Kubota’s lying around. Yet another fascinating Tokitoism, but one of the more inexplicable ones. It’s not like Kubota’s dirty.

  
Still, it takes him time to realise what Tokito is most possessive of. This happens for two reasons: a) He never sees Tokito interact with anyone else on a more than basic level and b) no one has been possessive of him, and it takes him a while to get it.

  
So he’s unused to it. That’s justification of sorts.

  
Once he does see it, though, it’s as obvious as the rising of the sun, as the wetness of tears on cheeks and the soft warmth of Tokito’s right hand. _Possessive,_ Kubota thinks. The word and the thought make a warm glow uncoil deep in his chest. If he cared to examine himself, he knows why that would be so, but he doesn’t, because he doesn’t. And so there’s a part of him that regrets that he wasn’t there when Tokito flat-out proclaimed himself co-owner of everything Kubota had, including Kubota himself.

He doesn’t hear about that little snippet until a few days later, when Anna calls. The rest of the call seems pale and insignificant in comparison.

  
Still, some part of him simply can’t resist, so that evening, ‘Anna told me what you said.’

  
Tokito ambles over to him, collapses on their sofa. He doesn’t sprawl as he does in the summer, just tucks his feet away from the floor, wriggles until his back is supported, moves his arms into the most comfortable position he can find. This squirming around is a ritual with Tokito when he wants to settle in for a while, and it never fails to amuse him. ‘About what?’

  
‘Oh, just your claim of ownership.’ Kubota keeps his voice light.

  
‘Oh, that.’ Tokito sounds unconcerned.

  
‘Mmm.’ Kubota leaves it there, waiting.

  
Tokito doesn’t reply; he just makes a dissatisfied sound in his throat. ‘Kubo-chan, it’s cold.’

  
‘So it is.’

  
He looks down at Tokito’s clawed hand from the side of the book he’s reading. Tokito always takes that position at his side, right hand between them; it’s a statement of trust, protection and strength all at once, and it warms him now as it has every time.

  
Tokito doesn’t say anything. Neither does Kubota. The silence hangs between them, quiet and heavy as a blanket, and as welcome in the winter chill.

  
Tokito falls asleep on the couch, head rolled back to an uncomfortable angle, mouth a little open, hair in his eyes. Kubota notices, but doesn’t do anything until he finishes his book. Then he sighs, lifts Tokito in his arms and carries him into the bedroom. Tokito stirs, mumbles something and tries to turn over, nearly making them both fall. When Kubota lays him down on the mattress, he curls up on the cold sheets with a soft whine until Kubota covers him with a blanket. He crawls in at the other end and Tokito, predictably, burrows into him, and then they both fall asleep.

  
He wakes up later, so much later it’s probably early, not late, when Tokito climbs sleepily onto him, clawed hand scrabbling at the sheets. The warm weight of Tokito on him is a lovely way to slide from sleep, and feeling Tokito’s hot breath on his chest in the cold room is even better.

  
‘Kubo-chan.’ And that’s Tokito. Kubota prays he’s not going to ask for something to eat again, but he shifts again, tugs at Kubota’s arms until they’re over his head. He lets him, still not quite sure whether Tokito’s awake and not wanting to disturb him if he isn’t.

  
‘Kubo- _chan_.’ Sleepy insistence.

  
‘Mmm.’

  
Tokito licks his nipple, slow, and Kubota’s lips part as he exhales. A small sound from Tokito, purr and growl melding, and he sucks on it. Tokito’s by far the more vocal. Kubota barely ever makes a sound, but he waits for Tokito’s; they ground the experience, make it real. The soul of his words, he’d thought once, and nothing’s changed since then, this won’t ever change and he longs for that, for permanence, reality, truth, clarity; not to cling to something, because he’s tried and tried but everything he clings to is ripped away, but for something to cling to him instead, to be wanted, needed, possessed, owned.

  
Owned, and in Tokito’s grip he arches, sighing as an unexpected and unadulterated joy rises in him, the sight of Tokito’s frown of fierce concentration as he rubs them together, the shock of skin on skin, the gasp he makes when Kubota struggles insincerely against the restraint of that warm hand, the scent of his sweat as he shifts against him, its taste when he leans up to kiss his collarbone, slide his tongue over defined bones and soft skin. He rolls them over, trapping Tokito, pressing into him until his definition of reality narrows to where Tokito’s skin, hot and damp, meets his. It still feels like the first time, like seeing in colour or slipping on glasses, the sudden presence of definition, clarity, a hundred edges, shades and hues unfolding into his vision. He shudders and moves faster. Tokito parts his legs further, hooks them around his and somehow flips them back over again, incredibly flexible, and that nearly finishes him; the harsh grip on his hair hurts a little, Tokito doesn’t know his own strength, never has with this hand, it’s the other one that’s always careful of him, furry smoothness curving down his flank.  Wrapped around himself at the moment, and then he grabs Kubota’s hand, insistent, and they stroke him together as Kubota moves in him. Kubota pulls himself up, and with their height difference they’re mouth to mouth and it seems natural to kiss.

  
Tokito never lets go of him – hasn’t even once, not in any way, ever – clings to him as fiercely as Kubota wants him to and more, is fiery and bold and utterly certain of his claim, and that is sweeter than anything, and so he lets go, unafraid of losing himself, so tightly defined within that embrace that nothing flies apart even when he does. Comes back to himself breathing hard, covered in sweat, actually too hot despite the chill of the air around them. Tokito wrapped around him like a living blanket, limp and clingy as he thinks an octopus might be when he’s in a lighter mood; on his side, a leg and an arm slung over him, burrowing into his neck and huffing ticklishly against his skin.

  
‘Hey, Tokito.’

  
A sleepy purr – Tokito’s warm-happy-calm sound, rumbled into his skin. Still, Kubota can’t resist asking.

  
‘Why don’t you like it if I use your soap?’

  
Tokito lifts his head and eyes him blearily. ‘That’s a stupid question.’

  
Kubota tightens an arm around him and waits. Finally, Tokito fixes him with a drowsy glare. ‘It makes you smell like me,’ he says, slowly, in his trademark _You’re dense, Kubo-chan_  voice. ‘You should smell like you.’

  
It’s very logical and very Tokito, and he can’t help chuckling. He should have figured that out by himself.

  
‘Go to sleep,’ Tokito commands, digs into his earlier position, and huffs against his skin again; that should tickle, but Kubota’s grown used to it.

  
So he closes his eyes, utterly contented, feeling sleep stealing up on him. Falls asleep with Tokito’s breathing in his ear, a blurry outline of hair before his eyes, the feel and the taste of his skin on his lips, achingly, shatteringly real.


End file.
